


Never Let You Go

by vix_spes



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Feels, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Nearly Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Post Battle of Badon Hill, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/pseuds/vix_spes
Summary: In the aftermath of Badon Hill, Galahad and Tristan's relationship traverses a somewhat rocky road.





	Never Let You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my amazing betas [Dormchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dormchi) and [Hannibalsimago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibalsimago/pseuds/Hannibalsimago) for not only being ridiculously quick but also boosting my confidence inordinately and generally being wonderful.

The first time that it happened, Galahad was hurt. He had been away for several days leading a scouting party for Arthur and, having returned wet and hungry after spending the better part of five days with Woads, all he really wanted to do was spend some time with his lover. Except, Tristan didn’t want to spend time with him if the way that he brushed Galahad off was anything to go by.

Galahad had tried to rationalise it, tamping down on his bruised emotions and trying to think of it from Tristan’s perspective. They may have claimed a victory at Badon Hill but it had been hard won and the Sarmatians had lost yet another brother in Lancelot. They had nearly lost Tristan as well. Galahad’s heart had been in his throat when he had seen Tristan facing off against Cerdic, the two of them circling each other like predators with their prey. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Tristan’s abilities – hell, they all knew that Tristan was the best of all of them – but it was more that Galahad was on the other side of the battle with far too many Saxons and Woads in between them. What mattered was that Galahad wasn’t there to protect Tristan’s back.

By the time that Galahad had made it across the field, Lancelot had fallen and, of more immediate concern to Galahad, so had Tristan. Galahad dropped to his knees, his vision already blurred with tears as he saw the blood pooling around the scouts body, yelling Tristan’s name and begging him to wake. He tried to check Tristan’s pulse, hoping desperately that he was somehow alive but between the way that his heart was hammering in his chest and his hands were shaking in a combination of adrenaline and terror, he couldn't feel anything. He fisted his hands in his hair, screaming in frustration, only stopping when he felt a hand on his back. Swinging around, a dagger in his outstretched arm that he didn't remember pulling, his wrist was caught in Gawain’s firm grip. Galahad watched in desperation as Gawain reached down to check Tristan’s pulse, a small kernel of hope taking seed in his chest when Gawain nodded and shouted for Bors.

The following days hadn’t been easy, moreso for Galahad rather than Tristan. After Bors had carried the gravely injured Tristan into what was passing as their medical tents, Galahad had planted himself at Tristan’s side and refused to move. He had forced the healers to work around him, not caring that he was still covered with blood, dirt and sweat from the battle. It was only when Gawain promised to take his place and watch over Tristan that Galahad consented to move and, even then, he was back as soon as he was cleaned up.

And that was where he stayed for the next few weeks. He spent every minute at Tristan’s bedside, only leaving to bathe and relieve himself. Cerdic’s blade had come closest of any opponent over the years to killing Tristan. By all rights, it should have killed him. None of the healers knew how he had survived; they had no explanation for it but Galahad needed no explanation, he just needed Tristan alive.

Nevertheless, Tristan had missed both the burning of Lancelot’s body and Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere as he was still bedridden. It chafed, there was no denying it. Tristan was not a man to be constrained, especially by the limitations of his own healing body. To the frustration of both Galahad and the healers, from the minute Tristan woke properly, he was trying to leave his bed and join his fellow knights as they tried to find a place in a world they had never planned to be in.

So, whilst Galahad would admit that maybe he had been fussing a little bit too much, he had hoped that a few days apart would have made Tristan more amenable towards him. Tamping down the hurt, he had gone to make his report to Arthur and hoped that he would receive a warmer welcome when he went to bed that evening.

~*~

  
The second time it happened, Galahad was just as hurt and equally as confused. He had hoped that Tristan’s behaviour towards him would revert back to normal now that Tristan was well on his way to healing and back to training, trying to regain the strength that he had lost during his recovery. Galahad had been trying to fuss less, give Tristan space but to no avail. Still, Tristan seemed to show no interest in spending time with Galahad away from their bed.

Even in bed, it was a pale shadow of what it used to be. Tristan and Galahad had ended up with the most isolated rooms of all the knights after too many complaints at being kept awake long into the night. Galahad was particularly vocal in bed and Tristan knew exactly how to play his body. However, ever since the battle, they had yet to resume intimacy. Oh, they had kissed and shared a bed, with Galahad falling into slumber wrapped in Tristan’s strong arms but the nights where calloused fingers played him as surely as a now string, Galahad writhing and moaning in pleasure? They had yet to make an appearance and, given that Tristan was back to wielding both his sword and his bow, it wasn't because he physically wasn't capable.

Galahad simply didn't understand.

Tristan had always been an enigma, that wasn't news to anyone, but Galahad had always been able to read him better than most. When they had moved beyond friendship and mere brotherhood, embarking upon a relationship, none of their brother knights had been surprised; money had even changed hands. They had never hidden the nature of what was between them so for things to now be confined to their rooms, as though it was something to be ashamed of, didn't settle well with Galahad. Judging from the pairings around the fires at night, there would be no recriminations or trouble from the Woads and everyone else knew about them.

Unsure as to what the reason for Tristan’s withdrawal could be, Galahad found himself withdrawing as well. Trying to protect his heart as much as possible, Galahad turned inwards. Deep down, he knew it was futile. He had been in love with Tristan for as long as he could remember and he knew that Tristan was it for him. Tristan had once told him, whilst teaching Galahad how to care for his beloved Isolde, that hawks mated for life and, as it was for them, Galahad knew that it was for him. Tristan was his for life, there would be no other. Tristan had been his something to live for but, if the scouts behaviour was anything to go by, Galahad hadn't been his.

Needing space and time to contemplate a life without Tristan, to put away the dreams and hopes that had sustained him through the years, Galahad had gone to Arthur and volunteered for a long scouting mission. Arthur knew his men well and could see that something was troubling Galahad. He clearly wanted to ask but Guinevere stopped him with a touch to the arm, something for which Galahad was grateful for. His request granted, Galahad had packed his things and attempted to find Tristan to bid him farewell.

There was no sign of him though, just sympathetic, almost pitying looks from his brothers that lanced through Galahad and, as he mounted his horse, the road ahead of him was blurry through the tears that stung his eyes.

~*~

After the third, fourth, fifth and sixth times Galahad’s hurt turned to anger. It was either that or resort to begging and he had too much pride to do that. He had already sacrificed so much of himself for Tristan and he refused to go further. He’d always had the hottest temper of all the knights - except for maybe Lancelot -, all fire and flash while Tristan was like water, his emotions roiling beneath a calm surface. The time apart from Tristan hadn't been the balm that Galahad had hoped, hadn't imbued him with acceptance. Instead, it had fed the rage simmering in him. And then Galahad had fed the fires with alcohol.

Alcohol and Galahad had never really been the best combination but it was even worse when his blood was up. He'd gone searching for Tristan when he had returned only to be completely unsurprised to discover that his lover was nowhere to be found. He may not have been surprised, but that didn't mean that he wasn't upset. Exhausted, bruised and nursing a shallow arrow wound to the arm, he had cursed his traitorous heart for hoping that Tristan would be there to greet him. When there was no-one waiting for him but Arthur expecting a report, Galahad headed straight for the tavern, not even stopping to clean himself up. Judging by her pursed lips, Vanora wasn't happy about serving him but she did so after sending an unhappy look in Bors’ direction and receiving a nod in return.

Galahad had already sunk two jugs of wine by the time that Tristan made an appearance. Even at a distance, Galahad could see that Tristan had started to gain back the weight he had lost during his recovery and couldn't help the bitter voice in his head that whispered he might have known that already if Tristan hadn't been avoiding him. As the scout approached, Galahad grabbed another jug of wine from Vanora, despite her attempts to keep it from him, and drained half of the contents in two long swallows. Even with the alcohol coursing through his blood, Galahad was hyper aware of every movement that Tristan made, tracking his trajectory without looking until he felt Tristan’s presence at his side.

“Pup...”

There was a quality to Tristan’s voice that Galahad didn't think he had ever heard before, almost like a pleading quality. For just a fraction of a second he wavered before he hardened his heart.

“You have remembered that I exist then.”

“Galahad…”

“No, you don't get to do this, Tristan.” Galahad stood and whirled around, his eyes blazing. “You don't get to ignore me for months and then act so concerned. You've been brushing me off and ignoring me ever since Badon Hill and I'm sick of it. I didn't want to go north because I said I had something to live for. That something was you but clearly you don't feel the same for me as I feel for you. I sat by your bedside for weeks after the battle, hoping and praying to gods that I don't believe in that you would survive. What did I get in return? Brushed off and ignored. You claimed to love me yet your recent behaviour has me wondering if you even like me. The only time I've seen you in the last few months has been in our chambers but even then you've neglected to touch me like a lover. I had put it down to you still recovering but then I found out that you'd resumed training. Surely if you're well enough to swing a sword or pull a bow then you're well enough to bed me? Or maybe you just don't want to.”

“Galahad…”

Through the red haze of anger, Galahad could see regret and pain etched on Tristan’s usually impassive face. For a fraction of a second, he felt his heart soften and then he remembered the months of hurt and anger that Tristan had put him through and his resolve hardened. Holding up his hand to stop Tristan from talking, Galahad shook his head.

“Don't bother. I'm staying with Bors and Vanora tonight. I haven't decided what to do about us yet.”

Galahad felt proud that his voice didn't waver once while he spoke to Tristan but, as he turned away to head for the home of Bors and Vanora, he couldn't stop the tears that spilled over and down his cheeks.

(~*~)

The following morning found a somewhat delicate Galahad sat outside the tavern. Not only did his head ache from the amount of wine he had drunk in quick succession the previous evening but his eyes and throat were red raw from crying whilst his shins and balls had taken more hits than he would have liked, having had to share a bed with numbers 4,6,9 and Gilly the previous night. Vanora had taken pity on him and brought him some porridge, sweetened just as he liked it but as of yet, he hadn't managed to do much more than push the spoon around the bowl. He started, slopping food over the table as something was dropped in front of him and Tristan dropped into the seat opposite him.

“What's this?”

“Open it and find out, pup.”

“Tristan…”

“It's not the apology you deserve but it is an explanation, I hope.”

The pleading tone was back and, when Galahad darted a look at Tristan’s face, he was wearing the same look that Tristan accused him of wearing when he wanted something. Taking a deep breath, Galahad opened the bag, only to let it out sharply as he saw the contents. Emptying the various items onto the table, Galahad felt years prick his eyes once more, even though he had thought he had no more left. He had seen these objects once before when he was a young boy back in Sarmatia. One of the warriors in their tribe had made such pieces for the woman he wished to marry, spending hours fashioning the pieces into the ornate jewellery and decorations that their people favoured. There were gold bracelets hammered into thin spirals, ornately carved beads for his hair, a torc inlaid with spiralling hawks and a belt buckle fashioned in the shape of a horse. All of them signs of intent that Galahad recognised and set his heart racing.

“Tristan…”

“I knew, when the gods saw fit to let me live, that I wanted to bind us together in the ways of our people. I just hadn't foreseen that, in my determination to make items worthy of you, I neglected you.”

Galahad didn’t refute Tristan’s words, why would he? These last few months had involved far more introspection than Galahad was comfortable with and, whilst he was still angry and hurt, Galahad also knew that he would forgive Tristan all of it. He wouldn’t let him forget what he had done but he would forgive him because Tristan was it for him. That being said, he wasn’t going to make it easy for Tristan.

“Do it again and I'll gut you myself, making what Cerdic did to you look like child's play.” Admittedly, his threat may have been more effective if his eyes hadn’t been red and swollen while his voice was a mere rasp.

“Then you'll say yes?”

“Say yes to what? I don't believe that you've asked me anything yet.”

“Will you bind yourself to me, Galahad? In the ways of our people until death takes one or both of us?”

Galahad didn't answer verbally, instead leaning in to claim the lips that he had missed so much in a passionate kiss. They had a lot of talking to do; Tristan needed to be made aware just how much he had screwed up but that could wait until Galahad was feeling more rational. He smiled against Tristan’s lips as he heard Bors’ crude shouts and Gawain’s grousing as to how he really didn't need to see this, before pulling back slightly.

“Do not think this makes me a bride…”

~*~

It was official.

Galahad was his now, not just by choice but in the eyes and traditions of their people. Mere minutes ago, they had stood across from each other by firelight and sworn oaths to each other in the language of their forefathers, binding themselves together forever. Tristan was well-aware of how lucky he was that Galahad had agreed to this, that he hadn’t walked away due to Tristan’s shortsightedness. He also found it ironic that, despite him being the scout, he had been unable to see the impact that his actions were having on the one person he loved above all, even Isolde. How could he have been so blind as to presume that his lack of presence would go unnoticed?

Tristan had never been verbose, even as a child. Indeed, there had been plenty of comments as to whether he _could_ talk. He simply didn’t see the need to chatter excessively; he spoke when he needed to and no more. And therein lay his mistake. He had simply assumed that Galahad, his pup, had known just how much he meant to Tristan. Just how much Tristan loved him. He had had an inkling of his mistake when Arthur had told them of the mission beyond the wall and Galahad had shouted that he had something to live for in response to Tristan’s glib comment about enjoying killing. Tristan should have said then that of course he had something to live for, that Galahad was his something to live for, just as he was Galahad’s.

He hadn’t.

The words had stuck in his throat and Tristan had nothing but continue to eat his apple while Galahad had stormed off. Galahad had come to their bed that night and Tristan had done his best to show how he felt but it clearly hadn’t been enough. And then there had been the mission, with Tristan off scouting the Saxons followed swiftly by the battle at Badon Hill. Galahad may not have said anything, but Tristan knew that he was unhappy about Tristan’s decision to face down Cerdic alone. The problem was, Tristan didn’t know how to find the words to say that the only thing on his mind when he had pushed his helmet off his head and engaged Cerdic in single combat had been Galahad. His one all-consuming thought had been that if Tristan didn’t stop Cerdic, then he could kill Galahad.

He hadn’t expected Cerdic to be the adversary he was, possibly the greatest adversary that Tristan had ever faced. It had been all Tristan could do to hold his own and, even then, it wasn’t enough. The last thought that Tristan had as Cerdic’s blade found purchase and slid home was that he couldn’t die yet, he couldn’t rob Galahad of his something to live for.

Only, he had managed to do precisely that. Or, at the very least, plant the fear within Galahad. Tristan had hated being constrained whilst he recovered from his injuries, chafing at the inactivity and being forced to stay inside. He was much like his Isolde in that respect; he was not one for enclosed spaces. In him, more so than the rest of his brothers, the wanderlust of their people ran deep, in his very blood. Yet, through it all, Galahad had been there and hadn’t moved from Tristan’s side, no matter how much he railed at the loss of his independence, taking his frustrations out on the younger man.

It had been during his recovery that Tristan had become almost obsessed with the thought of making the relationship between himself and Galahad permanent. He had been one of the oldest of the knights to be taken from Sarmatia alongside Bors and Dagonet and thus had more than just vague memories of life with their tribes. He could remember the wedding ceremonies and the finery that the wedded couple wore, all of it made by the groom, and started mentally planning the items that he would make for Galahad.

The instant that he was allowed to start resuming physical exercise, he bartered for the gold that he needed and claimed one of the most isolated buildings as his own personal forge. He started spending all of his time there, wanting to have the items perfect before he asked Galahad, never realising that, in his unwavering focus, he was neglecting the last person he wanted to neglect.

Galahad’s furious outburst, fuelled by alcohol and weeks of hurt and anger, had been a revelation. And not a good one. All of Tristan’s failings had been revealed and, as Galahad stormed away to spend the night away from their bed, Tristan was gripped with a very real fear that, in his desire and need to never let Galahad go, he may well have lost him. That night, he hadn't slept, working through the night to finish his tokens, knowing that in the morning he was going to have to put aside his aversion for talking or lose Galahad forever.

He had been lucky, Tristan knew that. Galahad had said yes but Tristan knew that the younger knight was not going to let him forget his mistakes. Then again, Tristan had no intention of repeating them. He had whispered his promises of love, trust, fidelity into Galahad’s skin alongside kisses as he arrayed him in the gold bracelets and torc, knotting the beads into the curls that he loved so much before they both dressed.

Now, as he kissed his new husband fiercely to the cheers of their brothers, feeling Galahad surge against him just as passionately, Tristan swore that he would spend the rest of his life making sure that Galahad knew just how much he was loved.

**Author's Note:**

> If you would prefer to comment on DW, you can do so [here](https://vix-spes.dreamwidth.org/296863.html)
> 
> If you would like to share on Tumblr, the post is [here](http://vix-spes.tumblr.com/post/170767678515/never-let-you-go-vixspes-king-arthur-2004)


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